Cats in my garden

 

A friendly feral cat visits once a day, eats a chapatti or whatever else is on offer, and brushes against the legs of anyone who is comfortable with the feline touch. It has been going for the last few years. Every year she brings her kittens, leaves them in the courtyard, goes out to hunt for rats and squirrels. The rest of the dietary supplements are taken care of by her foster human family.

This morning her three children have arrived to fill up this year’s quota. It’s sad news for the garden lizard couple that has the entire courtyard to them. They would spend most of the time on the ground. The kittens are enough grown up to maul them to a funny chameleon pickle. They better be aware of the danger.

The tiny hunters are snoopy and are searching every nook corner. Suddenly they spring in the air and snap up some little house lizard baby or some complacent cricket from the wall.

There are nests in the yard. Squirrel, silverbill, spotted munia and tailorbird couples have their nests among the clump of trees in the unkempt garden of this nondescript, countryside poet. Obviously the bird parents are panicked. The squirrels are continuously tik-tikking and chit-chitting. The tiny chits of tigers roam the little forest with their typical hunter’s attitude and poise. Full of caution and opportunism. One of them was seen eyeing the silverbill couple with such amusing greed that I burst out laughing.

Well, it’s nature’s play. The cat has timed her delivery at this time of the season when there would be enough rodents to hunt. The birds have laid eggs in the monsoon season to cash on the abundance of insects. Little loops of food chains, overlapping, giving rise to this entire gamut of survival games.

The kittens sometimes spend a few weeks, sometimes a few months. When they grow up sufficiently they scale the walls to taste the feline freedom of a feral cat that is comfortable with human touch sometimes.

Imagine how it was just a day before the kittens’ arrival. It was a silent little garden. The birds had their nests. A squirrel also. The birds sang. But everything changed since the kittens’ arrival. Now It’s just an endless noisy day full of birdie distress calls. The garden lizards have vanished. I saw one of the kittens vomiting a semi-digested stuff. It looked like rotten lizard pickle. So my forecast comes true.

The squirrels who used the cloth line to go to their nest on the tree are playing safe. The tailorbirds, the prinias, the robins, the bulbuls all have to use a major part of their energies in shouting warning calls all through the day.

One of the tiny hunters was seen escaping with what looked like a sparrow tail in its mouth. Was it one of the prinias? I can’t hear their meek peen-peen-peen sounds today. The miniature leopards are taking full advantage of their light weight and reach nests tucked among the highest branches about 25 feet above the ground.

Not that I haven’t tried to bribe them with malai milk, that too pure buffalowala, in order to keep their hunger satiated. They but prefer the raw furred delicacies. They move away from the milk bowl with a mocking smirk and go hunting. It’s a play as well as dining for them. A lethal combo.

In just three days it’s a different world in my small garden. Even slugs get unnecessarily slain, for sheer fun because the tiny marauders don’t eat them, they just kill them for practice I think.

A shrew has been a garden resident for the last two-three years. I took it as a lucky sign. I’m preparing myself to come to terms with its mauled corpse one morning any day soon.

I just watch them helplessly. They are all male kittens. That makes it even more troublesome. Girls behave slightly better. I get annoyed at them for slaying the peace in my birded garden. I’m sad for the fate of my little winged friends who give me so many tales and poems to write. But when the big fat rascally feral tomcat came to kill them to keep his harem intact and unrivaled in future, I contrived with my brother to teach the lampoon a lesson. He got a stick strike on his bum from the hands of my brother.

We feel like protecting them; we feel like caning them for killing birds and lizards. It’s a strange feeling. They play. They kill. That’s nature. But it’s heartbreaking to hear the distress calls of my bird friends. I can just watch helplessly. I know this is natural. But would I be a poet if I accept this fact so easily? Well, I only pray that these hunters grow soon and leap away on hunts beyond our garden. Then me and my birdie friends will take a sigh of relief. But will they leave any bird alive till that time comes?

A few weeks down the line. Stronger and more lethal, one of the three rascally kittens, who have forcibly taken over this village poet’s garden, is sprawled in the yard as the king of this tiny forest around him. An image of utter relaxation, hind legs drawn backwards, the front paws sprawled out, giving maximum rest to spine and the rest of the body. The birds and squirrels all agitated meanwhile. Its one second of rest coming at the cost of restlessness of dozens of creatures.

All the garden lizards are gone, few of them unnecessarily killed for fun, some puked out half-digested forcing the poor poet to clear the mess. The squirrels lost all their kids, except one squirrel brat that doesn’t dare to come down from the tree. One of the rascals is always sitting there under the tree for a non-stop watch.

The frogs get mauled. The senseless maulers don’t eat them, they just play cats and frogs. A new game. A grandfatherly bullfrog used to come into the garden from outside, sneaking under the iron gate grills, after the night fell. The village poet saw it usually while having his post-dinner walks to and fro like an old retired lion in a cage.

The old frog—it looks really old—proved his wisdom when he stopped sneaking into the poet’s yard after the dark. But last night it committed a folly. It came in. And one of the rascals had the time of his life with the old gentleman. It hopped like a springbuck and would land on the old frog as it tried to sneak out with its tired gallops. The miscreant would go scampering over the yard and would come jumping like a springbuck with firecrackers tied to its tail and there it would land on the poor frog. Look at the expectations! Wanting playmates after such killing and mauling sins! At one point they vanished in a bushy corner and weren’t seen for many minutes. The helpless poet feared for the frog’s life. But they finally came out. The feline nuisance wanted the poor fellow to play with it and do the same kind of ecstatic jumping. Somehow the frog managed to sneak out of the yard after almost 15 minutes of playful cuddling by a cat brat.

The birds and nests are gone. The nostalgic poet hears only angry warning cries of birds from the surrounding heights alerting one another to avoid the forbidden yard where three killers roam.

The rainy season used to be the time when the yard and little garden had many birdie residents allowing the poet to watch lots of lovely tales of winged parents raising their kids. But this monsoon it happens to be the season of slaughter in the poet’s yard. Oofs! And look at the shower of relaxation drenching this hero who basks in peace after slaughtering joy from many birdie lives. Phew!

The poet wants nagraj, the big old cobra that stays in the messy clump of trees, grass and bushes right in front of the gate, to sometimes pay a visit and teach them a lesson. Nagaraj’s hooded hiss will see them tumbling over with fear and maybe wet and soil their pants.